


margarita's no good without salt

by maggie



Series: the eradication of seemingly incurable sadness [3]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M, Public Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22480867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/maggie
Summary: After working themselves up into a lather over the course of texting through a workday, Alfie and Tommy skive off early to get down to the real business.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: the eradication of seemingly incurable sadness [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557283
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59
Collections: Sholomons Prompt Fest 2019





	margarita's no good without salt

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Sholomons_Prompt_Fest_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Sholomons_Prompt_Fest_2019) collection. 



> **Prompt:** Tommy is addicted to Alfie's cock, he will take any excuse to suck it or warm it. Just something porn-y about Tommy being desperate to suck cock.
> 
> Written by both John and Maggie of [@tommyplum](https://tommyplum.tumblr.com/tagged/the-liquorverse).

Tommy piles into the car with two bottles of lime margarita clanking in the brightly-coloured knitwork side-satchel he insists on toting around, that he'd nicked off an old girlfriend who ran a kiosk at uni and had piles of unsold merchandise in her flat at all times. "Backseat with that thing," Alfie barks immediately, because that bag sets his teeth on edge.

Tommy obliges without protest, slinging it off and dropping it on the floor behind the driver's seat before he buckles himself up and then swivels bodily in his own seat as Alfie pulls back out onto the road. "Your sexting game needs help," Tommy remarks, which Alfie thinks is rich coming from the man who attempted to phonetically replicate the way he chokes on cock. He doesn't say anything about that, though, a paragon of forbearance, he, and instead reaches over to pluck Tommy's specs from his face. 

"You're not driving," Alfie says, "don't veil those pretty blue eyes."

Tommy makes that partly scoffing, partly turned-on huffing sound in the front of his throat and doesn't stop Alfie, but takes the glasses from him and tosses them onto the dash where they click against the windshield. "Pull in at the side here," Tommy says, gesturing vaguely at the kerb. "What?" Alfie squints, "why? Where's it?"

"Here, here," Tommy says more urgently -- not much help -- and Alfie puts on his signal as a token two-second long gesture before steering the car to the side of the road, on a wide soft gravel shoulder abutting the empty car park yawning in front of some deserted shop. "You feeling peckish, love?" Alfie asks, barely able to make out that the shop boasts a selection of gourmet cheesecake.

"Yeah," Tommy says, and pops his chair back, slithering halfway off it to the floor so he can turn and gnaw at Alfie's knee. His hands push their way up Alfie's leg, to his flies, and Alfie grunts as blood immediately makes its way more southerly for the winter.

"Ah," Alfie murmurs, slipping his fingers into Tommy's hair. Some of the dark silky strands of it catch on his rings and Tommy makes a sound as Alfie tightens his hand into a fist; he likes that, open mouth panting warm damp circles through the thigh of Alfie's jeans. " _Always on your knees for me_ , that was what you said, wasn't it? No matter what we're doing--"

"I'm always on my knees. Congratulations, Alfie." Tommy's fingers pluck at the button, the zipper, Alfie's pants, the thickening heft of his cock. "You remember conversations we had twenty minutes ago. Still razor-sharp, old boy."

"And you're still a year older than I am, unless you've forgotten in your dotage."

"So many other more important things to wrap my head round," Tommy murmurs, flashing a hot look up at Alfie before he purses his lips and kisses the newly-exposed head of Alfie's cock, pouting little mashes from those lips before Tommy introduces his tongue to the situation and slurps. The sound is loud in the car even with the rush of traffic so near by, and Alfie wraps his free hand over the steering wheel and groans, cocking one hip to give Tommy better access.

But Tommy doesn't want that. He wants to make it hard on himself, wants to take the awkward position for all it's worth, and he angles his shoulder against the bottom of the wheel and curls the fingers of _his_ free hand into the open waistband of Alfie's jeans, hanging on there, fingernails scraping slightly into Alfie's skin. He sucks at the meaty head of Alfie's cock, like he can't get enough of the taste of him, already-austere cheeks hollowing as he starts to bob rhythmically up and down. Moaning as the bittersalt taste hits the pockets of his mouth behind his molars, making thin thirsty water well up and slick the passage of Alfie's prick.

Alfie gives an answering moan, the hand in Tommy's hair getting even more knotted before loosening so he can curve the heel of his hand over the rounded cup of Tommy's ear. "That's it, pet," Alfie croons, encouraging, his arse sinking a little lower in his seat so his thighs can fall wider apart. "Get your mouth on me, right down to the hilt. I’d best take advantage of that discount margarita while it lasts, hadn’t I?"

Another look from Tommy's lensless eyes -- blue like cornflowers in milk, where was that from? Who'd written that? Had they known Tommy Shelby too? -- and Tommy's glugging as he sinks down, further down, all the way down. Nothing to see now but the black-crow gloss of his rumpled hair, the ellipses of his clumpy eyelashes, the pale stroke of his nose, the faint pink flush winging his cheekbones. Individual features in steep perspective and Alfie slides down more. And more again. White-knuckled on the wheel and open-palmed at the side of Tommy's head, guiding, taking, caressing. 

“Fucking hell…” Alfie breathes, just gaping down at him, rocking his hips up as best he can in spite of their awkward angle, “...you little beauty…” He tilts his head back and groans. “Raspberry sour and tea, was it? Bloody magical elixir, to get you so hungry for me… But where’s my noise, sweetie? Let me hear it, yeah?”

Tommy's fingertips move against Alfie's hip, up, down, the slightly ragged nail of his middle finger catching on skin as he lets his jaw go slacker so Alfie's cock can push deep. Skidding along the roof of Tommy's hot mouth to choke him, and that noise Alfie wants tumbles obligingly out. A glug of carnivorous satisfaction -- with Alfie for being the object of desire, with himself for his own performance -- hoarse and high, and Tommy already knows his voice will be ruined after this when he's sat back in his seat with his belt on and they're headed to Alfie's. The thought brings him a vicious pleasure and he gags himself on Alfie's cock some more, letting the flared head sink as deep as he can manage before he pulls off with a wet cough, bottom lip slick and shining.

"Don't need fucking booze to get me hungry for you, Alfie," Tommy says in a rasping purr, stroking Alfie's thick length, licking his palm and then returning it to its work. "Don't need anything. To want what's mine."

“All yours, isn’t it, pet?” Alfie rumbles, impatiently lifting his hips again, wanting that mouth back where it belongs, “How could anybody else ever compete, eh?”

"Compete with me, you mean?" Tommy lets his eyelashes stutter a few times, cheeky Morse code, agreeing, "There's nobody like me you've ever had, admit it," before plunging his mouth down over Alfie's cock again. He slaps his open palm against Alfie's side, pressing in and rubbing at him, before pulling off one last time and getting back into his seat, starting to buckle up with his mouth lewdly wet and slightly open. Tommy reaches for his discarded spectacles, sliding them onto his face and quickly riffling his hair back into place with his still-damp hand.

"Get me home," he directs, calmly, gesturing to the road, "and you can cum anywhere you want on me. Or in me, if that's what you'd like." Tommy thumbs the corner of his top lip, making exactly nothing more respectable. "And then I'll keep your cock warm for the rest of the night. With my mouth, Alfie, or my hands, or my arse. Keep you nice and close. All mine."

“There’s no one like you in the fucking _world_ ,” Alfie grits out, pushing up into the perfect wet heat of Tommy’s lovely mouth, rolling his hips and finally beginning to really let himself go, to accept that this is happening, here and now; only to be shown a moment later - _barely_ a moment later - that it isn’t. That Tommy, contrary fucking bastard that he is, has changed his little hornet’s nest of a mind again, and prefers to amuse himself pulling Alfie’s strings. Which, unfortunately, he’s rather good at - and Alfie groans in frustration as Tommy’s glasses are settled back into place and his mop of dark hair is tidied, Alfie’s eyes hot and narrowed. “You,” he says, his hard cock still exposed and straining to get back into Tommy’s mouth as Tommy demands to be taken home, “-are an eldritch fucking monster, you are. You have got to be fucking joking.”

He says this, knowing that Tommy is doing nothing of the kind, and lets out a huff of frustration, hurriedly and haphazardly tucking himself away again, before starting the car once more, grumbling non-stop as he pulls back out into the street and glancing over to meet Tommy’s big blue eyes. “Think this is funny, do you?” Alfie grouses, “You’re flaming certifiable.”

"Not my fault you've got no sense of humour," Tommy has the nerve to say, when both of them and everybody they know would full well waste no time in pointing out Alfie as the one who's actually funny, and what's more the one who actually is good-humoured. But Tommy's fully eaten the canary, and he primly pinches his fingers at the corners of his mouth to finally, properly, swipe away the wetness there. "And a little forebearance is good for you, Alfie. Not like you won't get what's coming to you, soon enough."

Tommy gazes at his boyfriend, his partner, his man, and since Alfie's watching the road and a gaggle of pedestrians glued to their phones as they slowly navigate a zebra crossing, Tommy's free to let his stare soften, affectionate, the rolling hunger of desire settling down to something more sweet and familiar. He's fucking _darling_ , is his Alfie. And Tommy knows it. It's just not in his nature to let on. 

Alfie’s eyes widen and he sputters for a moment, then he gives up, turning his eyes back to the road muttering about _forebearance_ and smugness and pretty faces - only to overcorrect sharply when he turns the corner and Tommy so very casually says:

"I do love you, you know." Despite all of his inclination towards not being overly demonstrative, Tommy says it, and then immediately he busies himself cleaning his glasses. He'd feel bad about his behaviour -- he does, now and again, he might be an _eldritch fucking monster_ but he's not entirely heartless -- but when it comes down to it? Tommy leaves it to trust. That Alfie knows this, and is capable of puzzling out the cipher of Tommy Shelby's love language. Which, tonight, is going to be as many helpings of Alfie's cock as Tommy can manage.

It’s not _unheard_ of for Tommy to make this sort of declaration - downplayed though it may be - but still, it’s not an everyday occurrence either, and when Alfie looks back at his boyfriend, there’s something in his eyes; a softness and a shine of pride, that betrays how much this little throwaway mention really means to him. Though Alfie, to his credit, knows his cat well enough to do some downplaying of his own.

“Too bloody right, you do,” he says with a cheeky grin, changing lanes again and giving his beard a stroke with one hand, “I’m the best thing ever happened to you and everyone knows it.”

"Ada's been nattering at you, I see, and you've been daft enough to believe her." The usual hint of sardonic acid is back in Tommy's voice now, underlying its unruffled cadence, as he finishes with his specs and slides them back on his face and clears his throat unnecessarily. "Turn here." As if Alfie doesn't know the way to his own house. But Tommy'd been half-hard in his trousers, and being pedantic helps with preventing his mind and libido from getting away from him before he has a chance to take Alfie inside and really, truly, lavishly go to town on him. 

At least one blow job, one finished, and then they'll have a bite to eat, maybe. Then some margarita. Then a slow, deliciously tortuous evening of telly and edging before Tommy lets Alfie fuck him. 

“Your Ada’s a wise woman,” Alfie says seriously, though his eyes sparkle, the corner of his mouth twitching as Tommy needlessly directs him home. He turns the car when he’s told to and then pulls up in front of the house; shifting the motor into park, and Tommy licks his lips, tasting Alfie there, and turns an enigmatic smile on his lover. 

"All right to make the walk to the front door, love?" Tommy asks, exaggeratedly solicitous, and reaches over to give Alfie's prick a stroke. "Or do you need to get the edge off right here parked in front of your place where all the neighbours can see?"

Alfie makes a low amused noise in the back of his throat when Tommy’s hand finds its way back between his legs for another delicious moment of torment. “I think I’ll survive,” he says, though the bulge in his trousers is anything but decent, “Mind you don’t forget that bag of yours.” Alfie gets out of the car and heads for the door, cock throbbing, calling back, “After all, if it’s bad taste we’re protecting the neighbours from, then surely that thing can’t be left behind.”

Tommy's in too good a mood to bother protesting about his bag (as it was free, he has no particular loyalty to it other than that), and he collects it, clanking once more, before listing up against Alfie at the door to grope at him and nip at an earlobe. "Your neighbours are accustomed to bad taste already, ay?" Tommy purrs, his teasing at this point having smoothed and mellowed out from arousal and tipsiness. "Listening to your music and looking at the sorts of jerseys you fancy."

“Oi,” Alfie protests, playing at being affronted even as he reaches down to return Tommy’s grope as the door swings open, “-listen, sweetie, you’ve not got a leg to stand on when it comes to music what with those dirges you’re so fond of, eh?”

Tommy snorts, turning his attention to the sounds of claws on the floor as Cyril bounds toward them, eager for attention. "Where's my boy though -- Cyril! Here, boy, it's Tom, come on then!"

He elbows past Alfie to bend over and rub both hands roughly against Cyril's ears, the dog giving one of his big resounding barks in greeting. "Good boy!" Tommy responds in kind, almost at a shout. "I'm going to be swallowing your dad's prick in a moment, so best get your bids for petting in right now before we banish you!"

Alfie gets properly through the door, taking a moment to enjoy the mutual affection of his cat for his dog before clapping his hands over Cyril’s ears as though protecting a child from scandal. “ _Language_ ,” he chides Tommy with a smirk, then steps inside, shutting the door behind them, “You’ll scar him for life, talking like that.”

Alfie takes over petting duties for the moment, cheerfully roughhousing and cuddling with their large ‘child’. “Won’t he?” he asks the dog with a grin. “Yes, he _will_.” 

"If he's made it this far in being ours without us scarring him," Tommy says with zero remorse as he stoops to unlace his shoes, "then hearing me say aloud what he already knows won't hurt him."

Cyril looks up at Alfie with adoration, then barrels back into Tommy for a larger helping of affection, Tommy’s margarita bottles barely escaping with their lives as he's nearly bowled over by their dog. "All right, boy, all right," Tommy laughs, staying down on the ground for another couple of minutes as Alfie gets his own shoes and jacket sorted. "Here, Alfie, take the bag before muggins here cracks the margarita bottles open prematurely." 

He croons at Cyril, not in English, pleased as always at how well their multilingual dog understands Tommy's delving into Romani, and slaps and rubs Cyril's bulky scruff, thinking as he's done many times how the dog resembles its owner. Then Tommy raises his gaze towards Alfie with a slow, wicked smile; he doesn't say anything, not in so many words, but he is, after all, on his knees. Or close enough.

Alfie reaches for Tommy’s bag over Cyril’s head, smiling a bit more softly than before at the murmur of Romani and Cyril’s utter lack of confusion - accustomed as their dog is to being a good boy in at least five different languages - then notices the look in Tommy’s eyes and his lover’s position on the floor, and he gives a quick whistle to get Cyril’s attention. Which he gets almost immediately (Cyril is a _very_ good boy, after all). “Alright,” Alfie says, “Off you go.” He points in the direction of the sitting room and Cyril runs off to his toys and his bed, leaving Tommy and Alfie alone again; and Alfie sets the margarita down on a nearby table; his hands, once free, popping the button on his jeans and sliding down the zip. He wastes no time in taking his cock out, stroking himself slowly, waiting for Tommy to close the distance between them.

"Ahhhh," Tommy keeps on crooning, "there's my boy." He leaves his glasses for this round, taking a couple of long knee-strides forward until he's up flush against Alfie, waggling his angular shoulders so they bump against Alfie's legs, one-two, and then he grasps the base of Alfie's still-so-warm cock and wraps his lips around the length of him again.

And this time, Tommy doesn't bother with teasing or drawing it out. He throttles Alfie's dick with his mouth, glugging on the thickness of it stoppering up his throat, letting himself make all those lovely tormented sounds that Alfie likes so much. That Tommy loves hearing too. He sucks and slurps and pulls off for only a second so he can spit, frothy saliva and precum, and slides his mouth back on and down and lets the head of Alfie's prick bulge against his cheek in showy, obscene personal pornography. Looking up, finally, over the rounded rims of his specs and the dark hair in disarray over his forehead, squeezing Alfie's balls in encouragement.

“Fucking hell,” Alfie groans, his knees feeling weak, fingers buried deep in the thickness of Tommy’s hair, “What are you trying to do, you mad little thing? Kill me?” He rocks his hips though, wanting to see it again, the rounded swell of his cockhead tucked into Tommy’s cheek - and he _keeps_ rocking them, the hand playing with his balls warm and wonderful as it urges him on. “Wouldn’t take much now, love…” Alfie murmurs thickly, stroking Tommy’s hair back from his forehead, the undulation of his hips keeping those pretty noises coming. “Is that what you want? A bellyful of my spunk? Because you can have it, pet…” He bucks harder, shuddering as that wet slurping gets louder. “Fuck, Tommy… you should fucking see yourself…” 

That _is_ what Tommy wants. That's absolutely his goal, and he lets his eyelashes sling low when Alfie pets his hair, stroking it back with one broad warm hand, loving in its motions and smelling faintly of Cyril. Which is funny, and absurd, and absolutely one hundred percent Alfie in every way. 

And so Tommy hums and bobs his head, his chin moving in a rounded sweep as he uses his tongue to bathe Alfie's cock and then suck down the soft slushy fluidness filling his mouth around the hard shaft, his own saliva flooding and flooding and dripping out the corners of his lips. He makes one long, slow noise of absolute hungry surrender, flickering his tongue along the thick vein on the underside of Alfie's cock, wanting to stroke out his orgasm. Determined to do it.

Alfie groans low in the back of his throat, and fists the hand petting Tommy’s hair into a decently firm grip, rocking his hips to fuck that wet wonderful mouth; little boy eager, but in no hurry now that Tommy’s down on his knees where he wants him and playing nicely for a change.

“God, Tommy, yeah,” he rumbles approvingly, tugging and pulling gently but insistently, his feet planted firmly, stance as wide as his jeans will allow, “Christ, that’s fucking good...”

Tommy makes a noise to indicate that yeah, he knows just how fucking good he is, and he strokes the tips of his fingers right behind Alfie's balls as he massages them in his cupped palm, closes his eyes for a while as he bobs his head in luxurious savouring motions, hooks his free hand in the lowered back of Alfie's waistband and tugs his jeans lower. Till they're past his thick muscled thighs, circuiting his knees, and Tommy leans in closer and deeper.  
Its task done, Tommy reaches up and splays his hand against Alfie's side, thumb making hard little orbits against his skin. Bruising out polka-dot marks of ownership as Tommy's mouth surrenders and claims all at the same time.  
Alfie can’t help but huff out a laugh at the smug noise Tommy makes around his prick before shuddering in pleasure at the way those fingertips tease, fighting to keep his eyes open and watch as Tommy sucks him, long and slow, working Alfie’s already loosened jeans down to catch around his knees. 

Tommy’s hand on his side feels nearly as hot as the cavern of his mouth, and Alfie moans and bucks his hips harder and faster, his orgasm building quickly. “Fucking hell,” he swears, his knees turning watery, the hand in Tommy’s hair tightening its grip, “Jesus Christ, Tommy…” And then he groans, cumming hard and filling Tommy’s mouth with spunk.

“Fuck…” Alfie pants, still rolling his hips, “There’ll be no living with you now.”

That hand in his hair, pulling tiny pinpricks of fulfillment against his scalp, is like catnip as Tommy kneads Alfie's balls in encouragement and swallows with shameless glugging sounds when his boyfriend unloads. The shots of spunk hitting the back of Tommy's throat as he works his tongue furiously to keep up, heaving in breaths each time Alfie pulls back and Tommy gets the chance to inhale, and he fixes a stare on Alfie's face as he comes down from his orgasm. The way that full mouth is reddened and lax, lips pressing together hard, the soft bristles of his beard moving with the set of his chin as Tommy laps up every last drop.

And then he pulls off, triumphant and grinning open-mouthed, knowing what a fucking sight he looks. Tommy curves his palm over Alfie's hipbone, caressing, and uses the other one to fondle Alfie's spent (for now) cock. Before pressing a hot-mouthed little kiss to its naked head with a parting, see-you-later slurp before Tommy gets up off his knees and waits for Alfie to kiss him. 

"I'll be wanting that supper you promised, now," Tommy murmurs, taking Alfie's shirt in both hands to give him a slight, emphatic shake. "Worked up an appetite, didn't I?"


End file.
